Dismantle Repair
by Ericka Jane
Summary: Two-shot tag to 5.13 & 5.14 SPOILERS. Dean isn't sure what to expect when he gets back to the motel room but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't terrified to find out.
1. Back From Hell

**A/N:** I promised KKBELVIS (who is awesome and amazing, and a total enabler) that I'd write her a 5.13 tag. Well, I did that, but I also mashed it up with a 5.14 tag because episode 14 was just so awesome and heartbreaking, and I couldn't leave it alone. So, here it is, I hope everyone likes it!

**Warnings**: Spoilers for 5.13/5.14, language, blood, angst and total bro moments.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or anything associated with it. Trust me, if I did, there'd be WAY more hugging. The day that Sam and Dean start hugging every other episode is the day you know that I've taken over the writing room. Title borrowed from Anberlin's 'Dismantle. Repair', they own it, not me.

* * *

**Dismantle (Repair)**

There's too much blood on the ground for Sammy to still be alive. Jesus Christ, there's a _pipe _in Sam's _stomach_ and there's just too much blood.

Tears burn Dean's eyes like fire as Uriel's hand tightens around his throat, cutting off words, cutting off air, and stealing away any last moments he could have with his brother. He can't get him off. Panic and grief are stealing energy away from his damaged body, and all he can do is stare at all the blood that's coming from Sam's belly. Michael shows up just as his vision starts to tunnel and his chest starts to stutter.

Dean barely waits for his lungs to start working correctly before he points to his fallen sibling, "Fix him."

The smile Michael gives him makes Dean want to punch the holy hell out of his face but he doesn't, because it would hurt, and he needs the bastard to bring Sam back.

But that doesn't stop him from glancing at Sam every other second all through Michael's monologue. He really doesn't give a damn about pre-ordained destiny or archaic angel bloodlines; he seriously couldn't care if he tried. Right now all he cares about, all he can _see_, is Sam lying in his own blood with his hands still around the pipe. Dean swallows to keep his stomach acid from crawling up his throat.

Michael looks at him, practically stares through him, and Dean has to keep himself from crying. Silently he begs Michael to make good on his promise. He listened to his speech about a million different pieces of fate and random acts, and now he just wants him to bring Sam back.

When Michael finally touches Sam, making him disappear and leaving only the pipe and blood behind, Dean thinks he might as well call it an act of mercy for all the relief it brings him.

Warily, he watches Michael bring his hand up to do the same to him, the whole time promising himself that he'll find a way to kill the archangel if Sam isn't in absolutely perfect condition when he gets back.

_Flash._

Dean isn't sure what to expect when he gets back to the motel room but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't terrified to find out. He crash lands on the motel floor and the ugly carpet burns his palms. He stays like that for a moment, just trying to get himself together, before he forces himself to look around for Sam. He doesn't have to look far.

Sam's sitting on the edge of one of the beds, hunched over, and staring at the huge blood stain on his shirt. Dean swallows hard as panic hits him full force and he scrambles over to his brother.

"Sam?" Dean asks urgently as he kneels in front of Sam, who doesn't respond.

Dean's hands ghost over Sam's body, unsure of where to touch, or what he should do. He finally settles on grabbing a hold of Sam's shaking wrists to help ground his frantic emotions, and to simultaneously check Sam's pulse. Sam's heart is racing under Dean's palms and his skin is warm, but not hot. He lets out a small breath as he feels the reassurances of Sam's pulse, the reassurance that Sam's _alive_. He lets go and swallows as he pushes Sam's arms out of the way, so he that can see his stomach. There's a jagged hole in his shirt and the bottom half is completely soaked through with blood, like it was dipped in crimson syrup.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean breathes. His throat clogs up as he stares at the evidence of Sam's fatal injury. It hits him that he'd lost his little brother for a second time. For a few minutes, Sam had really been gone.

Dean swallows and slowly hefts up Sam's shirt up, and stares at the unblemished skin of Sam's abs. No wound, no scar, nothing but tan flesh.

Dean drops his head, his forearms resting on Sam's knees, as he finally lets relief flood him like a drug. Damn it, things had been too close this time, way too close.

When Dean finally looks up again, Sam's watching him, his eyes wide and glossy, skin too pale.

"What's wrong?"

Sam's eyes follow him but he still doesn't say anything. The lack of response makes Dean's previous relief fade into panic again.

"Come on, Sam, you're scarin' me. Say something!" Dean demands as he brings his hands up to grip Sam's arms, giving his brother a slight shake.

"I saw hell."

If it weren't for the words, Dean never would've heard Sam's soft voice. But Dean always hears the word 'hell,' no matter how softly it's spoken.

"What?" Dean asks, the word breaking as denial worms its way into his brain.

"It was…" Sam breaks off and his bottom lip trembles, "Dark and red…and…"

Dean stares at him in horror. Not this. Anything but this. The last thing Dean ever wanted was for Sam to experience hell; he'd rather go back himself.

"Dean, m'gonna be sick," Sam gasps, already pushing himself past Dean as he stumbles to the bathroom.

Dean follows him, his heart and thoughts racing, as he pushes the bathroom door out of the way. He kneels down behind Sam and puts his hand firmly on his back, feeling him shake and lurch with sickness. Dean closes his eyes, wishing like hell that he'd never met an angel and that everything was different, _better_. When he opens his eyes again, Sam has stopped vomiting, and is resting his head against his arm, which is propped up on the toilet seat. Dean falls into big brother mode, his thoughts on nothing but helping Sam, and making everything better.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says softly as he pulls Sam's trembling body away from the toilet, so that he can flush it.

He leans Sam against the bathtub and then grabs a stray washcloth from the sink. He runs the cloth under some warm water, rings it out, and then squats in front of Sam.

Dean looks at him, silently asking permission to take care of him. Normally he wouldn't give a damn if Sam wanted the help or not, he'd just do it. But Sam's on this (not so) new independence kick and hasn't been as accepting of help lately, or as he calls it, "babying." Mentally he pleads with Sam to let him do this, to let him take care of him so that he doesn't feel so useless.

Sam's eyes are filled with tears and guilt and pain, but under that is the younger brother that he's kept hidden for the past year and a half. Dean takes that as permission and starts to wipe away the blood that's still on Sam's mouth and chin. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do to make it better. He feels as useless and as powerless as when Uriel was suffocating him, and Sam was across the room, dying.

Dean's eyes blur at the memory but he refuses to lose it in front of Sam, not while Sam's so close to losing it himself. Suddenly Sam's hand comes up and closes around Dean's wrist. Dean pauses his actions and looks at him, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers and then his face crumbles as tears take over, "I'm so sorry."

Dean blinks in surprise for a second before his instincts kick in, and he tugs Sam to him. Sam's forehead rests on Dean's shoulder as Dean's arm holds him close, "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Sam, ok? Nothing."

"I sent you there, you went because of me. God, Dean it was…," Sam trails off as he clenches his hands in Dean's shirt, twisting and holding on like a lifeline. Dean understands. It's hell and there really aren't any words to adequately describe it.

Dean drops the washcloth and hauls Sam in for a full on hug, screwing his usual rules of 'no chick flick moments' and physical contact, because they both need this right now.

He should have known that Sam's brain would've skipped over being concerned about itself, and gone straight into feeling guilty about the time that Dean had spent in hell. That's how Sam works and Dean should have seen it coming.

Dean rests his cheek on top of Sam's head, "Nothing to feel sorry about, Sammy, I sent myself there, remember? Nothing you could've done about it. It's ok."

Sam shakes his head but doesn't say anything, and Dean doesn't know if he should be thankful for that or worried.

After a few minutes he slowly releases Sam and eases him back against the tub, "Need to finish cleaning you up. You hurt anywhere?"

Sam's eyes look vacant as he shakes his head 'no.' Dean swallows and nods before he picks up the abandoned washcloth to clean the dried blood off of Sam's hands.

"Scared the shit out of me, Sammy," Dean says softly as he works on removing the red from Sam's skin, "Damn angels. God, if you had…I don't know what I would've done."

"She was right to try to kill me. Castiel lied when he said that she wasn't."

"No, she wasn't right," Dean states with conviction and a stern face, "You dying is never alright, we'll find another way."

The discussion ends there because they've had different variations of this argument ever since they found out about Yellow Eyes, and it always ends with them on different ends of the spectrum.

Silence follows. Dean concentrates on getting the blood off of Sam's nails and Sam concentrates on the top of Dean's head. A few times Dean's opened his mouth to say something or ask a question, but he can't force out the words. It took him months to even say the word 'hell' and now here he is, wanting to interrogate Sam about how much he saw, _what_ he saw, what they did to him…

God, he was going to be sick.

"Dean, you ok?"

Dean looks up, realizing that he had stopped cleaning Sam's hands and was just staring at them, frozen in his actions.

"Did they hurt you?" Dean asks, _demands_, because he needs to know. Of all the other shit that's in hell, he just needs to know if they touched his little brother. He knows it isn't likely because Sam couldn't have been there long, but the chance was always there.

Sam's breath catches in his chest when he inhales and for one heart stopping second, Dean thinks Sam's going to confirm his worst fear.

"No."

Dean lets out a laugh that could almost sound like a sob, "Good. That's good."

"It was just…flashes, mostly, and the sound…there was so much screaming. I don't even think that I was fully there yet, wasn't dead long enough," Sam continues softly.

Dean nods and tosses the now red washcloth in the sink.

"You ready to get up?" Dean asks, searching Sam's face.

"Yeah."

Dean grabs one of Sam's arms and helps haul him upright, and then puts a steadying arm around his shoulders once he's standing. Slowly, they make their way back to the main room and to the bed that Sam abandoned earlier. Sam eases on to the bed and lays down, curling up like he used to when he was younger.

"Move over," Dean mutters and taps on Sam's back.

Without a word Sam shuffles over, making room for his older brother. Dean sits up in the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Sam moves over until his back is pressed against Dean's side.

"You don't have to stay with me," Sam comments softly.

Dean drops his hand on to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, his way of silently telling Sam that he knows, but he wants to, might even need to. They'll both be having nightmares tonight, Dean of Sam falling to the ground and into his own blood, and Sam of red flashes and agonized screams. They'll need to have each other's backs.

"You think Cas will make it back ok?" Sam asks, his voice already slurred with sleep.

"I hope so," Dean answers softly.

Sam makes a sound of agreement and shifts, pressing closer to Dean.

"Go to sleep, I'm not going anywhere."

As Sam drifts off, Dean renews his vow to protect Sam at all costs, because today was too close and he can't lose his brother, he can't let him go to hell. He'd would rather die first.


	2. Panic Switch

**Warnings**: Same as part one, spoilers, angst, language, just the usual. Oh and extra schmoop.

* * *

"_Every day's another test_

_Of fighting my addictions_

_Placing myself in situations_

_Will it ever go away?"_

_-Before Their Eyes - 'Because 7 Ate 9'_

_

* * *

_

**Dismantle (Repair)**

Silence fills the diner as everyone left standing takes inventory: a dozen dead, mangled civilians, five demon meat suits, two broken human brothers, one near dead horseman, and one disoriented angel.

By a hunter's standard, it's a win.

Sam feels the itchiness of the drying blood on his chin and counts it as a loss.

Dean's gawking at him, his expression a landmine of fear, astonishment, heartbreak, and disappointment. Whether his disappointment is in Sam or in the situation, Sam's not entirely sure. He doesn't think he wants to know.

Castiel stands just behind Dean as he wipes the remains of Famine's effects from his hands and face. He locks gazes with Sam. The angel is practically oozing sympathy and understanding but the youngest Winchester flinches away, ignoring the forgiveness that Castiel is offering so freely. He bounces his gaze nervously back and forth between Dean, Cas, and the floor for a few moments before he decides that the silence needs to be broken. That, and he doesn't like feeling like a sideshow freak.

"We need to go to Bobby's," Sam says softly, his eyes not quite meeting Dean's, "I need to, uh…you need to lock me up again."

Sam can hear Dean's sigh from where he's standing across the room and it makes him flinch. His guilt increases tenfold because he knows Dean is tired right down to his soul, and this is the last thing that he should have to deal with again.

Sam watches as Dean rubs his face with one hand, a habit he's had since he was a teen, and says, "Yeah, ok."

After Dean snags the ring off of Famine's hand, Castiel teleports them to Bobby's. Expelling all the demons from the Horseman really knocked the wind out of Sam's powers. He can already feel the need to drink more blood to get_ more_ power. The urge makes him sick with shame and self loathing.

Castiel waits outside the open panic room door while Dean steps in. Sam sits on the cot, trying to force himself to remain calm and ignore the building desperation and pain inside of him.

"You want me to stay?" Dean asks easily, like he used to when Sam had the flu and was puking every hour on the hour.

Sam shakes his head frantically, "No."

Dean doesn't need to see the mess he's going to turn into, and Sam doesn't need to mix up the fake Dean with the real Dean when the hallucinations come. It'd be easier if Dean stayed away.

Dean nods, looking at his hands as he twists his ring, "I'm going to go get some water."

Sam doesn't answer but he watches as Dean leaves the room to go perform the chore.

When Dean comes back, Sam's already trembling and a thin sheen of sweat has formed over his skin. Dean sets the pitcher and the bowl on the table on the far end of the room, and grabs the hand cuffs off it at the same time. He sits on the edge of the bed, the cuffs dangling from his hands as he sighs deeply, "Sammy…"

"I know, it's ok," Sam replies immediately as he shifts on the cot so that Dean can restrain him.

Regret is pouring off Dean in waves, along with a whole bunch of other things that Sam can't put a name to. He doesn't really know what Dean's feeling or thinking right now, but he does know that the last thing his brother wants to do is chain him down again.

"Ok," Dean finally says as he moves to put the cuffs in place.

After it's done Dean rubs his face again. Sam watches him with a calculating look.

"I'm sorry," Sam says softly.

Dean drops his hand on to Sam's forearm and squeezes reassuringly, "Cas got whammied too, Sam. It wasn't your fault."

Sam feels like that's the story of his life. It's just an endless cycle of whose fault was it, does it matter, who's right and who's wrong. It never really ends so Sam doesn't answer, just let's Dean have the last word.

"You gonna be ok?"

Dean's hand moves to Sam's forehead, feeling the warmth there that's steadily climbing higher. His palm lingers there a little longer than necessary and Sam takes it for what it is: the only comfort Dean can really provide right now.

Sam shrugs as much as possible on the cot, "Probably."

"Not really inspiring much confidence here, dude."

Sam snorts and then locks his gaze on to Dean's, trying to put as much confidence into his facade as possible, "I'm going to be fine."

"Yeah, I know you will," It's a half truth and they both know it but Dean pats Sam's chest in acceptance, and stands up, moving to the door, "I'm just going to be out here."

Sam wants to protest and Dean, the sneaky bastard, knows it, and leaves before he can voice his disagreement.

Dean slowly shuts the door and Sam tries to remind himself that it's not for the final time.

The panic room is hotter this time around but honestly, the temperature makes little difference to Sam. The addiction that's roaring through his veins like diesel fuel is making his skin boil so even if the room was stone cold, he'd still be feeling like he was slowly cooking in an oven. The muggy hotness of the room does nothing to calm his tremors; his body is still shaking like he's caught in a Californian earthquake. He's also extremely nauseous but he can't tell if it's from the demon blood trying to exit his body, or if it's from the heat.

He can't believe he's here again.

A new wave of tremors rocks through his body and causes all of his muscle groups to cramp up in near unbearable pain. He sucks in his breath in attempt not to cry out from the intensity.

He huffs out breaths as he tries to control the pain, along with the unbelievable urge to drink in more poison.

All he'd need is one hit, just one to make it go away. One hit wouldn't even make a difference in his powers, it'd just dull the pain. He just needs a little bit more. Why won't they let him have a little more?

Sam grimaces and can't hold back a sharp gasp of agony as his nerves flare with the need that's raging inside of him. It hurts, burns, like nothing Sam has ever felt before and honestly, all he wants is for his brother to be with him. If Dean were here he'd try to dull the pain like he used to when Sam scraped his palms and knees.

Please, Dean…

The plead echoes around in his head over and over, like a prayer, but he doesn't dare utter it out loud. Dean's just on the other side of the door and he doesn't need to hear Sam losing it. He's already suffered way too much because of him.

The room starts to get hazy, like pavement on a scorching hot day. Sam wants to curl in on himself to escape it but his bonds hold strong. He knows the hallucinations are coming from the way his bones are burning and the way all the lines of the room are blurred. A shiver rocks his body but it's not from the demon blood, it's from fear.

He'd hallucinated horrible things last time, Alastair being the one that really stands out. That and Dean telling him that they've never shared the same DNA. _Monster_.

It's going to be different this time, worse. Sam's seen hell. He's been there. And for the first time since Lucifer arrived in a blinding white light, Sam is truly terrified. He has no doubt that once the withdrawal has its claws firmly in his skin that he's going to see things that only exist in the pit.

The thing about hallucinations caused by demon addiction is that you don't just see them, you literally _feel_ them. Sam still remembers what it felt like when Alastair bit into his flesh with the scalpel. The pain had been agonizing.

Sam wonders if he can die from the hallucinations alone. If the answer is "yes" then he's pretty sure he's not going to survive this.

There's a pounding in his head that's relentless and unbearable. The throbbing pulses in time to his racing heartbeat. It kind of reminds him of the time when someone had tried to mug him, and knocked him upside the head with a lead pipe. It felt like his head had literally been split open.

After Dean had kicked the living hell out of the guy, gotten Sam to a hospital, and stopped worrying, he started making _Clue_ jokes.

"Lemme guess. Miss Scarlet in the library with the lead pipe…no wait, Scarlet's way too hot for you, Mrs. Peacock…"

Sometimes he substituted "Mrs. Peacock" with "Colonel Mustard," depending on what kind of mood he was in.

Sam had bitched about it at the time but he'd by lying if he said he wouldn't do anything to go back to those days, and fix everything that he's messed up since then.

"But you can't, can you?"

Sam's eyes close in fear for a second before he opens them again. It's like bad déjà vu. Dean's standing at the end of the cot with his hands shoved in his pockets, and a look on his face that he usually reserves only for enemies, monsters.

"You can't go back. Hell, you can't even go forward. Look at you, all chained down again because you couldn't resist the pull. You're weak, selfish, always have been, and look where it's gotten you. Look where it got me!" Dean growls as he leans in, making sure that Sam can't escape the words.

"You're not real. You're not Dean," Sam states softly but with conviction.

"Oh, I'm real alright. I'm what's screamin' inside your head every day. I sold my soul for you, let all those demonic bastards carve it out, all for you."

"M'sorry," Sam whispers.

Dean hums and then laughs, "Not yet."

Sam frowns and then gasps as Dean's eyes completely gloss over with blackness.

"But you will be."

The panic room fades into a dark red prison, so dark that Sam can barely make out Dean's features anymore. He can hear the screams, full of agony and defeat. The somewhat soft cot he's laying on transforms into a solid wood rack, and Sam can feel splinters work their way into his skin if he shifts wrong.

Hell. This is hell. This is what Dean went through for forty years. This is what his brother turned into, all because of him.

And when Dean steps closer into his eye line and produces a blade that's already the color of rust, and says, "let's get started," Sam forgets that he's detoxing. He forgets that it's not real.

Dean went to hell because of him and now Sam's paying for it, just like he knew he always would. Just like he deserves.

* * *

"Tired" doesn't even touch on what Dean's feeling. Try exhausted, so much so that his bones and soul aches with it. Most days he has to fight just to get out of bed. And this…this might just break him.

Dean sighs as he leans against the pillar in the basement, clenching the liquor bottle hard in his hand as he tries to block out the sounds that are coming from the panic room. Thinking too hard on them makes him want to bust in the room to try and make it better. He knows it'll just make it worse.

The screaming had started not too long ago. Dean knows that whatever Sam's seeing isn't real and that he isn't in any real danger, but the sounds he's making reminds him too much of the sounds he used to hear down in the pit. Considering what happened two weeks ago, he's got an awful feeling that he's not too far off the mark.

Damnit, it's not fair.

Every time they take a step forward something happens that makes them take ten steps back. They had been doing so well too, or at least, as well as they could in the situation. Sure, Sam's been barely staying afloat in an ocean of hell-guilt and Dean's been trying to erase the sight of Sam's blood with whiskey, but they'd been surviving. And more than that, they were really starting to get back into the rhythm of being brothers again.

Then Famine came to town and everything went to shit.

Dean never thought he'd say this but he really, really wishes that it had been the naked man's fault. Cupid would have been so much easier to deal with. Cupid never would've ruined Sam's clean streak. Cupid wouldn't have thrown everything that Dean's been fighting to ignore right in his face.

Dean takes another long pull of the whiskey bottle and winces as Sam screams for him.

"He'll be ok, Dean."

He'd almost forgotten that Castiel was there. Between Sam's shouts and the alcohol, he probably would've if the angel hadn't said anything.

"Yeah, he sounds ok," Dean replies roughly, sarcastically.

"It just needs to get out of his system. It shouldn't take as long as last time."

Dean shakes his head and takes another drink, "We'll be right back where we started. He'll want it again."

"He'll always want it."

And isn't that just reassuring?

There's a brief, heavy pause before Castiel speaks again, "Does it help?"

"Does what help?"

"Drinking."

Dean pauses just as he's about to take another gulp before shrugging, "Not really. Not with things like this."

"Then why do you do it?"

From inside the panic room Sam screams and pleads, "No, Dean! Stop! Please! Dean!" The last 'Dean' that cries is drawn out until it's no longer a word any more, but an agonized howl.

Dean closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, trying to remind himself that Sam's going to be ok, "Better than doing nothing."

Dean can tell that Castiel wants to say more but for once the angel is taking Dean's anti-social queues seriously, and stays silent.

Sam's pain filled cries continue to bounce and echo around the basement. Every sound is a reminder of Dean's failure, of everything that's gone wrong.

Why the hell didn't he think to put a Devil's Trap in the room? Why didn't he salt the place? Why didn't he do any of the things he was trained to do years ago?

Why them?

Cupid pissed him off. It isn't every day that someone tells you your parents were forced together and that you were created for the single purpose of being an archangel's pony.

But in a screwed up kind of way Dean's kinda happy his life turned out the way it did. If you believe in all this destiny crap then Dean's grateful that his dad went kinda nuts, and turned them into hunters. He shudders to think of how they'd get through this without training, without knowing the truth. He and Sam would've said yes in a heartbeat without it. Actually, from what he understands, he and Sam wouldn't even be in each other's lives if it weren't for hunting.

So yeah, Dean's a little grateful. But it still sucks.

From inside the panic room, Sam starts screaming for Cas. Somehow that makes Dean feel worse. Sam and Castiel have never been quite on the same page but after their little trip to the past, they seem to have smoothed things out. It's still a little awkward, a little hesitant, but Dean can see the starts of friendship there.

But the fact that Sam's calling for Castiel, an angel, instead of his big brother, has Dean's over-active and rather vivid imagination running rampage. There are some things only an angel can save you from, Dean should know. For the longest time in hell he screamed for Sam before he realized that there was nothing Sam could do.

Dean spares a glance at the angel as he takes another drink of whiskey. For the most part Castiel looks as stoic as ever. But Dean's been around him enough now to see the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes, both signs of Castiel's discomfort and concern.

"He'll be ok," Castiel reiterates, as if he can feel Dean's eyes on him, "It's not him in there. Not really."

Dean wonders if he's trying to convince himself as much as he is Dean.

"Yeah, I know" Dean chokes, his throat suddenly closing up with on coming tears, "I, uh…I need some air."

Dean takes off up the stairs before Castiel can protest or try to stop him. He brushes past Bobby's inquisitive, concerned look and heads straight for the front door. He stumbles through the junk yard until he's leaning against the Impala. Even the cold, black steel of his only true home isn't enough to comfort him. His eyes burn with wetness that he refuses to let gather and fall, even though he's alone with no reason to keep his front up.

_Deep, dark nothing._

_Already dead inside._

_You can't fill it, can you? _

_You can't win and you know it._

"Shut up!" Dean shouts in retaliation to the voices in his head. He then lifts the whiskey bottle and hurtles it into a broken down truck in front of him, effectively smashing it and wasting the remaining liquid inside.

The reoccurring voice in his head stops but he's left with the same hopeless, empty feeling, and no booze.

Then, Dean does something he only resorts to when Sam's dead or dying. He prays.

* * *

In the end it takes twenty-two hours. Somewhere around the twelfth Sam's hallucinations stop and Dean opens the door to sit with his brother. Sam opens his eyes around the seventeenth. His gaze is lost and glossy with fever and exhaustion, but Dean can see the fear and panic clear as day. As soon as Sam set eyes on him, he starts to struggle and push to get away from Dean's hands.

"No, don't…please!" Sam's voice is rough and weak, shredded to hell from screaming and yelling.

Something in Dean's chest twists and hurts at the sound of his brother's pleading. At the moment Dean's not sure if Sam's actually afraid of him or if he's still just confused from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. For the sake of his sanity Dean's going with the later for right now.

"Shhh, easy, Sam," Dean soothes as he pushes Sam back into the cot, "It's over, ok? Whatever you saw, it's over. It wasn't real."

Sam pauses and blinks but the fear doesn't leave his expression.

"Go back to sleep. I'll be here."

The nightmares start when hour twenty hits. Sam thrashes and tries to yell but it comes out as a breathless, painful wheeze. That's when Dean pulls himself onto the cot and steadies Sam's head in his lap, running his hand through his hair in attempt to calm his tormented sibling.

"Dean…don't!" Sam grunts as he twists, trying to get away from something that Dean can't see.

Dean pauses for a moment, thinking that Sam's awake, but a quick glance down tells him that Sam's still caught in the throes of sleep.

"Stop," Sam sobs, "No…no more!"

From the things that Sam's saying and from his fear earlier, Dean's getting a pretty good picture of what went on in Sam's hallucinations. It's not a very reassuring picture.

Hell. Dean was expecting that. He was even expecting Sam to experience some torture in his delusional state. But somehow Dean himself had snuck into Sam's phantasms and by the sounds of it, things hadn't gone well.

Dean snorts to himself and knocks his head against the panic room wall. Like demon blood induced hallucinations can ever go "well." Dean continues to try and reach Sam through his sleep without actually waking him. Waking Sam right now would probably be worse than letting Sam fight through sleep.

"It wasn't real, Sammy," Dean whispers as he shifts Sam closer, "You can fight through this, I know you can. Just take it easy."

It takes some time but eventually Sam settles into a calm, but probably not entirely restful, sleep.

In hour twenty-two Sam wakes up for real. His head is still in Dean's lap and Dean's hand is tangled in his hair, unmoving. Sam blinks as he stares up at his brother's jaw. Dean's leaning against the wall and looking straight ahead, but Sam knows that Dean's aware that he's awake.

"You ok?" Dean asks softly

Sam doesn't trust his voice so he just nods, knowing that Dean will feel the confirmation. Honestly Sam doesn't know if he's ok or not. He guesses that depends on what Dean's definition of 'ok' is. His throat feels like it was scratched raw, his hands are still trembling, and he still feels unnaturally hot, but the pain is gone. Thank god for small mercies.

And the urge is…tame, manageable. Sam can feel that it's going to be hard to push down but not nearly as hard as it was the first time. He admits that it felt good to feel that power again, to feel like nothing could touch him, like he was strong again. But that feel good isn't worth it and he knows it. It's what tore him and Dean apart and what started the apocalypse. It's what makes him Lucifer's vessel. That alone makes him loathe the power that's constantly lying dormant inside him.

Dean shifts subtly under Sam's head and it brings his attention back to his older brother.

"You saw hell, didn't you?"

The question startles Sam. He wasn't expecting Dean to want to talk about it. In Dean's book, there are five things they don't talk about: hell, Ruby, demon blood, Cold Oak, and the waitress in Tampa. Dean's breaching two of his own rules in one question and honestly, Sam's not sure how to react.

"And I was there too."

Sam can't help the sudden, unexpected rush of terror that sweeps over him and makes his whole body tense up. He knows Dean feels it because the hand that he has tangled in Sam's hair starts to rub over his scalp, trying to calm him down again.

"What I don't know is if I was being tortured too…or if I was doing the torturing."

Sam's slight hitch of breath is the only answer he needs.

Dean nods, his features pinched, worried, "Man, you've got to let it go."

Sam shakes his head just briefly, thinking of all the things he'd seen in hell, in his hallucination. He knows now what's in the pit and he's disgusted with himself. He thought he could try to understand what Dean went through, thought for a very brief moment that Dean was weak for not getting over it. He had no idea. Thinking that Dean would get over hell was like Dean thinking Sam could get over the image of hell hounds ripping his brother apart. It just isn't possible.

"Sorry," Sam croaks and then grimaces.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean replies firmly as he looks down to meet Sam's eyes, "I told you. It wasn't your fault. I'm the one who shoved my ID in the crossroads, remember? I never blamed you for it. Even down in the pit it never crossed my mind that I was there because of you. And I don't regret it. So just let it go, please?"

Honestly, Sam missed most of that except for "I don't regret it." Ever since Dean came back and Sam learned what had happened to him, and after Sam's monumental screw up, that had been one of his secret fears. He's not saying that he's happy about what Dean did to save him. If he had his way, he'd be dead and Dean would be hell-free. But in the back of his mind he was always scared that Dean didn't think he was worth sacrificing himself for, because that would mean Sam was too far gone. He'd been waiting to hear that it wasn't true for a long time.

Finally, Sam nods. Message received with little interference this time.

Dean sighs, weariness and relief evident in the sound, "Good."

As Dean settles his hand back on Sam's head and Sam starts to fall back into the pull of sleep, Sam thinks that yeah, maybe they will be.


End file.
